


Second Time, Fresh Start

by jdphoenix



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: F/M, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pearls really do look better on her, not that she needs to justify stealing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Time, Fresh Start

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are probably half a dozen stories tackling this same scene, which is why I avoided AO3 immediately after seeing the movie and wrote this rather than let all those others deter me. Hopefully this won't be stale.

She kind of hates Bruce Wayne. Oh sure, he miraculously returned to the city in the nick of time, his help was crucial in saving them, she never would have survived today or even known she was in any immediate danger without him, and he went and sacrificed himself for the city. Big whoop. That doesn't mean she can't hate him.

Not that she needs to justify stealing the pearls. Even if she could have gotten to them in the last few months she wouldn't have, not with ever socialite and trophy wife being dragged into Crane's court. So she waited, content in knowing that no one else would be able to crack the safe. Now that it's all over though and Wayne's assets are going who-knows-where, she wants those pearls.

She's got plenty of reasons to. Hate him, that is. This is the second time, after all. The second time she's had to see him go to his death - okay that first one was kind of her fault but she had to watch it. More importantly though, it's also the second time-

"They really do look better on you."

He can't see her from where he's standing so she allows herself to close her eyes. Only for a moment of course. The breath goes out of her and with it the tension that had resettled in her muscles as he flew away. That tension had been her closest companion for five months. She'd thought she was rid of it when he showed up on the street and then …

"Well I should hope so." She rises and spins in one smooth motion, slamming the safe shut with her hip as she does so.

He's leaning in the doorway, wearing slacks and a sweater. They hide most of the injuries but she can see a bruise forming on his jaw. In a few hours it'll be a deep and ugly purple. His arms are crossed and he's trying very hard to look disapproving but he can't hold back a smile.

She crosses the room, the heels she stole from the apartment of some-rich-woman-who's-probably-dead-now-doesn't-she-feel-bad clicking loudly in the empty space. She grasps the string of pearls by the tips of her fingers and holds it out to him. He's a little confused and she'll admit she likes how very human he looks when he is. He takes them all the same, his fingers wrapping around hers before sliding down to the necklace. Her heartbeat jumps at the contact but she doesn't allow her expression to falter.

"Be a lamb," she says and turns her back on him. It's … not something she does often. Ever, really.

He steps closer than necessary behind her and she watches him lower the string before her eyes. They really are gorgeous pearls. Each perfectly shaped and colored and- and she's still mad at him. He went off and died. Again. This had better not become a thing.

"What's that?" he asks.

She covers her frustration at having spoken aloud by pulling her hair out of his way. His knuckles brush the edge of her collar as he brings the ends together. His breath, faint against her skin, is shockingly warm in the chill of the room. She allows herself to close her eyes again. His hands slide over her shoulders, kneading away the last of the tension she felt after he …

"Dying," she says swiftly. She lets her hair fall back and she steps away from him so that she can face him more certainly.

"I don't do it that often," he says. His hands have fallen to his sides and his palms turn outwards as if to say obviously he hasn't actually died and so should be forgiven.

"Really? I met you less than a year ago and you've already died twice. Quite a record, I'll say." She moves to the right, he moves to his left. The second his weight shifts she moves to her left and slips past him out the door.

"Selina!" he calls and that's exactly the problem, nicely wrapped up in those three syllables. It's the way he says it, so familiar, like he _knows_ her. He doesn't. They fought, they kissed, they saved the city. It was fun and now it's over. He'll go back to being a billionaire, she'll go start a new life once she's wiped out her old one.

The echo of her heels in the stairwell is much more cacophonous than their steady beat across the room upstairs. It certainly helps that Bruce is pounding after her.

At the last step she's stopped by a dark form falling down from above. He rises up from the half-crouch of his landing and for a moment he's pure Batman, his body unrolling to its full, imposing height and his head coming up to hold her in place with only the power of his will. But then his face comes fully into view and he's just Bruce, standing in front of her with a half-wince marring his expression. She pushes the advantage and swings. She's not trying to hurt him, just distract him long enough for her to reach the doors.

He catches her arm, twists, and uses her own momentum to spin her past him. She half-trips off the last step and she allows herself to be flung forward. He keeps his grip on her arm and when she reaches the end of his hold there's a slight spring-back. She uses it for momentum and brings her leg up. He ducks and she's straddling their joined arms, forcing him to stay low. She brings her other leg up, aiming for his shoulder. He grabs her ankle with his free arm and finally lets go with the other, bringing it up to help deflect the force of her kick. She lets him and swings it up, around his head. She spins on the spot and resumes her quick march to the doors.

He runs after her again, this time grabbing her wrist. She's about to swing at him again but his loose hold makes her pause. She turns and finds him looking out the windows.

"That's my bike," he says.

She pulls her arm away. "Correction: _my_ bike. I think I earned it. Besides, it looks better on me too."

She gives him a self-satisfied nod and again moves for the doors.

"Correction," he says quietly, " _you_ look better _on it_. And I certainly can't argue."

"Plus, it's got the guns," she points out. She doesn't know why she's stopped. She could touch the door from where she's standing and be gone already. "You really don't like those."

"No, I really don't." He's not looking at the bike anymore and he's doing that trying-to-be-disapproving thing again. It's annoyingly cute.

"Don't know why you'd want to keep it around then."

He shrugs, the very picture of nonchalance. "They help with the balance."

"Uh huh."

"They do. I'm not sure if you've noticed but that machine is designed for balance first and foremost. It might seem like it's about to roll you, but it always manages to keep you safe."

"Which is exactly why I'm keeping it." He's closer than before. He probably thinks she hasn't noticed his small, measured steps bringing him nearly close enough to grab her again. He's keeping his left side closer to her. This time she'll slip under his arm when he reaches for her and hit him in the back. The blow will keep him down long enough for her to get to the bike without any trouble.

He stops. He actually stops a full five feet away and now she doesn't know what he's planning.

"I thought it was because it suited you better."

"That too. Hot woman in a bodysuit on a bike, always more attractive than menacing man dressed as a flying rodent."

"How about hot woman on deck of yacht? Personally I think a bikini would be better than a bodysuit but that's your choice."

Now it's her turn to be confused and she doesn't like it nearly as much on herself as she did on him.

"What?" she asks a touch coldly because this whole thing has gone on far longer than she thought.

"Batman's dead, everyone probably assumes Bruce Wayne died in the trials, and a few hours ago you were asking me to run away with you. Now it's my turn, only my way involves a yacht."

He really is smiling now and it takes a lot of effort to keep herself from doing the same.

"You're serious." She doesn't know if it's a question but he nods. "What about Gotham?"

He shakes his head and looks at a blank stretch of wall, beyond which is the city skyline. "I don't know. I don't know what they'll do but I think … I think I've given them all I can. It's not up to me anymore."

He breathes out slowly and a weight lifts off his shoulders. She leaves him to his thoughts, content to wait him out. After long seconds his eyes track back to hers.

"So, what do you say? I was thinking we head up to Canada, erase you from every database in the world, and fly over to Europe."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "To do what exactly? You'll sit at home all day while I go out and steal at night? I don't think so. I'm not sailing off into the sunset with you only to end up supporting you while you sit on your ass all day, reminiscing about the good old days when you stopped naughty girls like me from stealing to eat."

"I'll get a job," he says like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"You know how to work?"

He nods towards the bike.

Of course he knows how, that doesn't mean he knows how to go about it.

"So your resume will say what, exactly? 'Former trust fund billionaire, knows how to instill terror in the hearts of criminals'?"

"I'll think of something," he says. "And until I do, I'm sure the money I have in a Swiss bank account under a false name will keep us comfortable."

She rolls her eyes. "A Swiss bank account, how cliché."

"Oh, really, Miss 07621-"

She steps so close their bodies are nearly touching, effectively cutting him off before he can recite the rest of her account number.

"You know you'll have to drain that before we erase your identity, right?" he asks.

She smiles and gives a faint nod. "I assume the bike will fit on the yacht?"

His brow wrinkles and he cocks his head to the right. "You really love that bike, don't you?"

She slides one hand up his arm, the other up his chest, and leans close to his ear to deliver a throaty, "Mm-hm."

His hands come up to her hips. One slides around to cup her ass, the other slides up her back. "What if I said there was nowhere to store it?" he asks.

She pulls back. "You are not making me choose."

"It's a hypothetical. 'What if.'"

She meets his eyes. He meets hers. This might go on a very long time. She sighs.

"I suppose I could steal the blueprints from the Wayne building before we left the city."

His chest shakes and he winces, probably from a cracked rib. It wasn't a laugh, but it was close.

"You can take the bike," he says. "We'll figure out some way to get it to Europe."

His arms tighten around her again and she lets him pull her close. She already knows exactly how to get the bike to Europe and is certain he has a plan of his own. They can fight over which is better later. She slides her arms around his neck and kisses him once, twice, then peppers soft kisses around the bruise on his jaw. He buries his face in her neck and she lays her head on his shoulder. The war is over. They survived.

Her fingers bite into the flesh of his neck just above his collar.

"Ow!" he snaps but doesn't do more than flinch. If anything, he holds her a little tighter.

"No more dying. This is not going to become our thing," she says because she absolutely refuses if that's how this will go. "You're not allowed to die and then come back all the time. A girl likes to make plans and I can't do that if you're constantly maybe-dying."

"What will you tell the Joneses when they come for dinner," he says into her neck. "'I'm sorry Bruce couldn't be here, he may or may not be dead. Again.'"

"So you can see how that wouldn't go over well."

He pushes into her neck twice and she realizes he's nodding. "Okay then, no more dying." He says it like he's giving up chunky peanut butter because she prefers smooth, like it's nothing at all, but his grip is still a little tighter than it has to be. He breathes in and out slowly, deeply, and she's not sure which of them is leaning on the other. Maybe they both are.


End file.
